The Book of Bones (25 page)

To fight them was the ultimate test. To win, all but impossible.

The caves were dark so we lit candles to find our way. By the flickering light, hunching a little, we trudged through a narrow tunnel. The air was close in here, with even less oxygen than on the mountainside. Water was everywhere in a constant drip, drip, drip. It seeped through the rock face like beads of perspiration on clammy skin, coating the rocks underfoot. When I touched the walls they were slimy, like dipping your hands in sheep guts. Very soon we were all panting for breath.

All except Yin. I had the feeling she didn't need the candlelight to see. She darted, bat-like, ahead of us—a dark scampering shape. She was so tiny that she didn't need to crouch, and she was fleet footed, sure of her ability to stay upright. She'd told us that she had never been to these caves before. But Yin seemed to
know
where we were going. Trusting her, we followed. We all felt this trust, even Aunt Hilda. On some level we knew it was a folly, for what was Yin but a child? She had told us she didn't know her age, but she could not have been
more than eight or nine years old.

On another level she was older and wiser than any of us.

I had seen her fight. I had seen her kill the tracker. None of us would have been able to act with such calm, not even Waldo.

After some time edging through the narrowest section, the tunnel opened out into a high chamber. Not a cave, it was too large to be called a cave. The roof soared hundreds of feet above. This was a magnificent underground cathedral. A gust of wind came from nowhere and blew out our candles. We didn't need them because shafts of light came from holes high above and stippled the rocky floor with radiance. I caught my breath for there were thousands of stalactites, hanging down like rows of knives. Stalagmites poked up from the ground—these rocks were breathing. Water had dripped down through these caves for centuries; here were the results. Daggers of rock that trembled above our noses and stabbed at us through our boots. Isaac muttered something about “carbonization” and “limestone formations,” but his face was alight with wonder and I knew that underneath his grand words he felt as I did: these mountains were alive.

Waldo chose this moment, as we were trudging through the stalactites, to bring up my adventures in those other mountains, the Himalayas. I had never told
him about my journey to Shambala, though he had poked and pried and picked up enough to know the outlines of the story. Now at last I related how I met the Baker Brothers there, and their servant, a wretched monkey-man called Jorge. The three of them had drunk from the fountain of eternal life and been reborn young and handsome. But they were cursed, their beauty destined to crumble in the world outside. Waldo was fascinated by the waters. He wanted to know why I had chosen not to drink from them and become beautiful. He was so insistent about this that I had to tell him I found his attitude offensive.

“Aren't I pretty enough for you?” I smiled, slightly menacingly.

“Don't take it that way.” He grinned. “I'm just saying you could do with a little help.”

“Like what?”

“You know, softer cheeks, longer eyelashes, fuller mouth—a little bit more rosebud-shaped, like Emily. I must say she's got a fine pair of lips.”

“Emily?” I glared at him. “Who or
what
is Emily?”

“Just a friend who happens to be rather good at dancing. Actually, Kit, the best improvement would be a little less anger about the eyes. Whoa! All I'm saying, Kit, is that you should have drunk those waters. You'd be close to perfect if you were just a little more feminine.”

“What about you?” I hissed. “No, wait, I suppose you think you're already perfect?”

“You said it.”

I turned away disgusted. I didn't want to let him know that maybe some of that miraculous water had found its way into my body. My scar had vanished so quickly after all. As for all the rest of it, well, in this otherworldly place I didn't want to become distracted by petty quarrels.

While we bickered, Yin had walked ahead, picking her way through the chamber toward the pool in the center. She stopped underneath a large stalactite and turned to us. “Echo Pavilion,” she said.

She didn't need to repeat herself: “Echo, Echo, Echo …” Her words were thrown back at her face.

Yin smiled. “Before we go to Tranquility Pool for meet Abbot I need to tell you about Kung Fu.”

Her words were thrown back by the echoes.

“Kung Fu is an ancient system of martial arts practiced in China for many centuries,” said know-it-all Isaac, interrupting the sound display.

Yin continued. “There are two kinds of Kung Fu: internal and external. External is to about fighting, speed and power. Internal is different.” She came to a stop.

“Go on.”

“I do not know how to say this. My English.”

“Your English improves every day.”

“Speaking to you make it better.” She paused again. “Internal Kung Fu is stillness in movement. One movement, perfect. It is about precision.”

“Precision?”

“Yes, in Shaolin Kung Fu we aim to pursue less—or even nothing.”

This was dizzying stuff. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, I'd found this before with the Buddhist monk in Tibet. Less is more. Stillness in movement. It sounded like riddles.

“In losing or not yielding one can overcome,” Yin continued. “You must not just develop strength and power but mind/spirit. Meditation. Stillness. Gathering your ‘Shen.' This is the true test of the Wooden Men Lane.”

I could tell that the others were as befuddled as I was. From what I did understand, Kung Fu wasn't just about strength—or about killing. More importantly it was about your internal energy. Perhaps about having a quiet soul. Buddhist monks, like the strange man we had met in the Himalayas, sit still for years on end. Their aims are the opposite of our normal striving lives: nothingness, stilling thought, getting rid of the sense of self. In a way, almost,
forgetting
who you are and the constant whirl of chatter in your head.

“Come. We meet Abbot.”

Delicately the girl picked her way to the pool. It was easy to follow her—she was an orange moth beckoning us onward. There was a figure sitting cross-legged by the waters. At first sight I had taken it for another stalagmite. A piece of whitish rock, weathered by the years and dripping waters. Motionless, permanent as this mountain. But it was a living monk. We could see his shaved skull, pale as ivory.

We came upon the figure in the wake of Yin and heard her gasp. As my eyes fell upon the monk's face, I gasped too. It was not a monk, but a nun.

Gray Eyebrows opened her eyes and looked at us, her pupils contracting until there was nothing, just honey-colored light in flooded irises. I had the feeling that I was looking through the nun—to something beyond.

They talked, Yin and the nun. Then slowly, silently, Yin began to cry. A single fat tear fell down her cheek, splashing on her robe. I had never seen such hurting, not even when her beloved monastery was so destroyed. I kept silent, as did all the others, even Aunt Hilda. Eventually Yin looked at us and spoke.

“The Abbot is gone. Gray Eyebrows take his place. Oh, Kit, you never saw Abbot. They call him Shadowless because he move so fast the sun could not find his shadow.”

I took her cool hand. Of course I wanted to ask how
Gray Eyebrows had found her way here before us, as we had left her on the path, making her way back to the monastery. I didn't dare. It was a mystery. I was content that some mysteries I would never untangle.

“Gray Eyebrows tell me, you—yes, you, Kit—must come with me.”

“Where?” I asked.

“I tell no. But Gray Eyebrows insist it is only way.”

“Where are we going, Yin?”

Yin paused, I squeezed her hand in encouragement. “Wooden Men Lane,” she replied at last.

Rachel screamed and Waldo stepped forward so he was standing between us, forcing me to drop Yin's hand. He towered above the Chinese girl and above me as well.

“I'll go in Kit's place,” he said, as Aunt Hilda hovered behind him. For a moment I had a weird sense that this had all happened before. Then I remembered. Waldo had wanted to accompany Yin to decoy the tracker. But this time I hadn't demanded to go with Yin.

“No. You can't come. It must be Kit alone. More people, more danger,” Yin replied calmly. “She is the one who is poison.”

“Look at her.” His blue eyes were unusually fierce and his mouth was set in an obstinate line. “She's half dead already. If she has to do this thing, she needs someone with her.”

“She has me.”

“No offense, Yin. But she needs someone
bigger
than you. Someone who can
fight
.”

I think, in the heat of the argument, Waldo had forgotten that Yin was a master of Shaolin Kung Fu. He hadn't seen her fight, that was why. No one who had seen Yin fight would ever forget it.

Yin stiffened, perhaps he had offended her, for she had a touchy sense of pride. I thought she was going to refuse again, to tell Waldo off. Instead her eyes flashed over to the new Abbotess, seeking advice. Gray Eyebrows didn't move, though perhaps imperceptibly her eyelids flickered. Yin bowed her head and turned to my stubborn friend.

“Waldo. Because you love Kit, yes. You come.”

Waldo blushed, color washing over his face till he was red as a tomato. Even with all the different emotions churning around inside me, I couldn't help enjoying his embarrassment. “Rubbish,” he muttered, looking away from Isaac's twinkling eyes. “Kit's the most annoying person I know.”

“You true friend,” Yin talked over him, while he muttered about “
putting safety first
.” “Tonight we take rest. Tomorrow we will enter the Wooden Men Lane.”

Tomorrow we will enter the Wooden Men Lane
. Those were the last words Kit was able to write.

Sadly, it has fallen to me, Waldo Bell, to take over her tale. I do so because there is no one else who can tell it. Yin is not willing. The others are too distressed. Also they were not there, in the Wooden Men Lane. As for Kit, of course she can no longer speak, or write, as you are about to discover.

Forgive me, I am jumping over myself. I'm getting ahead of the action. You do not know what befell Kit. I will have to collect my thoughts, try to calm myself so I can tell you what happened.

I'll be frank. I was nervous and a bit angry that fateful morning as we ate our steamed buns and drank sour water. I hadn't forgiven Kit for Yin's words. (By the way, I'd like to clear that matter up before we go any further. I am not in love with Kit. She is one of the most stubborn, headstrong and all-round aggravating people in this world.) Yet here I was charged with looking after her as
we went into the dragon's cave, so to speak. It is all very well to say we had the little Chinese girl, Yin, with us, but she is a child. She scarce comes up to my neck and her arms are like twigs, one snap and she would break.

I know, I know. There
is
something uncanny about Yin. But appearances are sometimes deceptive. Chance can take on the illusion of fate, if you take my meaning. Kit had waxed lyrical about Yin's fighting prowess, how she had killed a tracker and disabled two other soldiers. But I was not there. The tracker was probably a spineless fellow who fell along with his men into the bog. It is much like dear Kit to embroider every tale. To give perfectly ordinary events wild and fanciful overtones.

I am much more sensible. Kit needs someone like me in her life, to keep her feet somewhere near the ground. Isaac—well, his head is in the clouds. Rachel is just a girl. As for her aunt, she is a tough nut. I've got time for Aunt Hilda. But at the end of the day I wonder if Hilda Salter really cares for anybody but Hilda Salter. Certainly her own interests always come first.

You may ask why I would take so much trouble over a
girl
? Well, I haven't really got time to go into emotional nonsense here (please wipe that smirk off your face—it isn't anything of
that
kind). You'll be wanting me to get on with the story. Suffice to say that there is
something
about Kit.

Yes, despite her pig-headedness, arrogance, inflexibility—and general ignorance of how a young lady
should
behave—there is something about Kit.

Anyway, after breakfasting, the Chinese child, Kit and I went down a passage that veered in a south-easterly direction from the large cave. These mountains were riddled with holes and tunnels, worse than Swiss cheese. I wouldn't fancy our chances of getting out of there, if we didn't have Yin to guide us. It was as dark and unpleasant as the way we had come in. Soon I noticed the girls were choking and struggling for breath. I am fitter, of course, so I could battle on a bit longer. I offered to carry Kit's water bottle and bag. I was amazed when she simply handed them over. This was highly unusual. Kit never accepts anyone's help. Seems to think acting like a
normal
girl is a sign of weakness.

That was the first warning.

After about fifteen minutes we came to the end of the tunnel. There was another of those caves with natural lighting, a small one with sunshine pouring in from the sides. Right in front of us were the sinister Wooden Men. Two massive lines of them, down the center of the cave. There wasn't much room to wriggle round them. At first glance, frankly, I couldn't see quite what there was to get so excited about. They were big, sure, about seven or eight foot tall, massive-fisted and footed. Yes, there
was something blank and unpleasant about their faces. Actually they had no faces, just empty spaces, as if they were waiting to be filled in with personalities.

Hang on a moment, I'm getting as carried away as Kit! Dear Kit. She looked very pale and was swaying, breathing scratchily. I took her arm to steady her a little. Trembling, she almost fell on me, her eyelashes fluttering. It felt good to be able to help her for once, to feel her depending on me.